Estel of Rivendell
by Henry Plantagenet
Summary: A younger, more vulnerable Aragorn tries to make sense of his feelings towards Elrond.
1. Estel of Rivendell

Elladan, almost invisible in his grey elven cloak, moved noiselessly through the thick underbrush. He stopped and looked... and in his fair face was despair, for he saw that the enemy was gathering in strength. "Estel, for all his strength, will be broken by them. He must not face them alone...he must not face them at all. I will take him home."

Aragorn knelt to the ground on a high mountaintop. He sensed the presence of the enemy near at hand. His shoulders were bowed. "They are many and I am tired," he thought. He mentally prepared himself to face the unseen threat. Elladan sped back to where the tall Ranger knelt, restlessly fingering the hilt of his sword as his mind raced, considering and rejecting various strategies for the battle ahead. And now, Elladan stood beside him. "Elladan! You have come to fight by my side?" A warm sense of relief coursed through Aragorn's veins. He was still a fresh-faced young man, struggling to come to terms with the hard life of a Ranger. As he strode in travel-stained clothes through the wild lands that had once been the great kingdom of Arnor, he often longed for the peace and protection that he had known in Rivendell. And as he fought his battles against the wild creatures that threatened the peace of the North, the thought often came to him in the voice of a child, "why does my father not come to me...call me back..."

The one whom he called "father" was the only father he had ever known. Elrond, the wise lore-master of Rivendell, who had cared for him since he was a child. Growing up under the warm sun of Elrond's protection, Aragorn had never imagined that he would one day choose to leave Rivendell and take to the hard life of a Ranger. But he could no longer find peace in Rivendell. Because of Arwen. But Elladan was speaking to him...

"This time, Estel," he said gently, "by your leave, you must ride home with me and leave this trial of strength to others." Aragorn's eyes glinted as he stood up to face Elladan. "Elladan, I am no weakling, to hide trembling in the background while others defend me. I cannot do it. I am not used to it."

Elladan sighed. "Some dangers are too great even for Aragorn son of Arathorn and his Dunedain to face alone. Come, let us rest awhile and, if you will, we will set out at sunrise." Aragorn wrapped his cloak around himself, shivering slightly, and allowed the tall elf to lead him deep into the forest.

He could not argue with him. Not with Elladan. After he had left Rivendell, there were times when Aragon had been overcome with a sense of loneliness so total and complete that it seemed to stifle him, to stop his breath. And help had come from an unexpected source. As a child, he had not seen much of his stern-faced elf-brothers, who were often away on errantry. They had then hardly seemed to notice his existence, although they had taught him to ride, and to use bow and sword. It was only after he had left home that Aragorn realized for the first time how much they cared for him. As he roughed it out on his own, experimenting with independence, Elladan and Elrohir had suddenly demonstrated that they were not only aware of his existence, but also understood much of his problems. Orcs, who made the mistake of wandering vaguely in Aragorn's direction, would suddenly find themselves facing the wrath of Elrohir, who "just happened to be passing that way." And Elladan, who seemed to sense his loneliness, comforted him simply by being with him as much as possible. The brothers had, in fact, spent a large part of several years "happening to pass by," never leaving his side until he had found his own feet. Even now, thought Aragorn, they seemed to know when he needed them even before he knew it himself.

Elrohir stopped as they came to a grassy clearing in the woods. Aragorn sat down, his back against a tree, looked up at Elladan and smiled. "Elladan, you knew that I needed you. And you came!" "Nay," said the tall elf, sitting down beside him. "This time, your father sent me." Aragorn looked at him in some surprise. "But he... he didn't... he has never..." Elladan understood. "Estel," he said quietly, "He has never come to your aid when you needed him?" All Aragorn's bitterness against Elrond flooded into his mind. He shook his head, biting his lip to hold back his tears.

Elladan's presence was so familiar, so comforting. Aragorn wanted to curse, to swear, to talk about how much he now hated Elrond, how he felt betrayed by the father who had once loved him. Elladan was Elrond's son...and yet Aragorn wanted to talk to him, to speak of the father who had turned against him, who had taken Arwen away from him, and who never seemed to have even thought about him after he had left Rivendell. He longed to tell Elladan of the despair that filled his mind whenever he thought of becoming King... of Gondor and Arnor. And Arwen... she seemed forever beyond his reach... "No," said Aragorn out loud "he did not... I was alone... sometimes I wished he would come to me and call me back home... if you love someone, Elladan, should you not come to their aid when they need you?" Elladan smiled. "Indeed you should." "Then why did he not come?" Suddenly, the voice of the hurt child inside him spoke out. "Does he not love me?"

Elladan put his arm around Aragorn's strong shoulders. "My Estel," he said gently, "no-one who knows you can help loving you..." His brother's words broke the dam that had held back Aragorn's anger, bitterness and pain. He buried his face in his Elladan's shoulder, his chest heaving with the tears that he could hold back no longer. Elladan stroked his dark head. He soothed and calmed him until he at last fell asleep in his brother's arms.

When he awoke, his brother's arms still encircled him. Aragorn did not hasten to get up, and neither did Elladan press him to. The soft morning light filtered through the trees and the sky was painted in delicate watercolours of pink and gold. Aragorn lay at peace in his brother's arms, watching the world awake. He remembered walking with Elrohir on just such a morning on a lonely mountainside. Smelling the fresh green grass as Elrohir, in a voice softer than the gentle breeze, painted pictures for him in words of the mellow morning light. Aragorn began to speak the words of Elrohir's poetry as Elladan waited patiently for him to get up and face the day.

"Come, now," said Elladan at last, "I will take you home." "Rivendell is not my home," said Aragorn, rather bitterly. But he was soon riding like the wind through the cool morning air on Elladan's great horse, with Elladan seated behind him. He had not shared a horse with Elladan since he been a child, learning to ride. The rhythmic movement of the horse and the cool air on his face relaxed and calmed him and he soon fell asleep in Elladan's arms again. But Elladan, tense and alert, knew that they were riding through dangerous territory and with his keen eyes, surveyed the landscape that flowed past them like a river. Suddenly, he stiffened. "Estel!" Aragorn sat up at once, fumbling for his bow. Elladan sat erect and alert, looking at something in the distance that Aragorn could not see. Aragorn wondered how they would both shoot while sitting on the same horse, without getting in each other's way. "I knew that I should not have come with him," he thought, helplessly.

"Only one of us may shoot," said Elladan. "Will you lie low, Estel?" It was more an order than a request. Aragorn obediently sprawled forward, leaning his cheek on the horse's warm neck. "Elbereth, Gilthoniel," breathed Elladan, as with a slow, graceful movement, he fitted an arrow to his bow and waited. There was a moment of total silence. Aragorn waited, not daring to raise his head, not daring to disturb Elladan's concentration. And still, Elladan waited, until Aragorn began to wonder if the unseen enemy had gone away. He wondered who they were, and how many.

And then at last, Elladan let loose his arrows. Aragorn could feel their raw power as Elladan unleashed them. They screamed over his head like a storm, a tempest. Elladan's arms moved like lightning – so fast that Aragorn would not have been able to discern every movement, had he been able to watch. He could sense the power of Elladan's concentration as his arrows flew with deadly accuracy to their marks.

A star shone on Elladan's brow and he was now revealed as an elven warrior in all his wrath. Aragorn had watched Elladan bend his bow before, but only in demonstration of the art. Now Elladan was fighting an unknown foe of great power and Aragorn could feel the difference. He could feel his elven brother's grace and power as he bent his bow with a skill rare even among elves.

Elladan stopped his attack as abruptly as he had started it. Aragorn sat up cautiously, caught up in admiration of Elladan's skill. "There was once a time when I strove to perfect my skill with the bow," thought Aragorn. But that was before his life had become the arid desert that it was now. Before Elrond had asked him to achieve the impossible. He would never be King of Gondor and Arnor.

"You are a great warrior, Elladan," he said aloud. "There was a time when you, too, used to work hard to perfect your skill with the bow, Estel," said Elladan. So he had noticed. He had noticed that Aragorn was not interested in anything anymore... "Sometimes," said Aragorn, trying to explain, "sometimes something hurts you so badly that you cannot stand up again..." He sighed. "Has anyone ever done that to you, Elladan?"

Elladan was silent for a moment. Should he burden Aragorn with talk of his old wounds? Elladan thought not. He would rather help Aragorn get over his own troubles. "Yes, Estel," he answered. "I have been hurt, but..." "By whom," asked Aragorn. "My mother," said Elladan, "but let us not talk of..."

"You mean the orcs," asked Aragorn, "the orcs who made her suffer?" "No," answered Elladan quietly. "I mean my mother." Aragorn was startled. His mother! Aragorn could not imagine the gentle, perceptive Elladan having a disagreement with anyone, least of all his mother. Aragorn respected Elladan and Elrohir's skill as warriors. But it was their capacity to understand and to heal that he admired most. And what disagreement could one such as this have had with his mother? Aragorn hesitated. "Is it permitted to ask..."

Elladan smiled. "Of course you may ask. Estel, you spoke of hurt, of hurt so great that it can break you..." Elladan paused. "My father healed my mother, healed her body. But not her spirit, which was broken... Estel – we wanted so much to take away the pain, to make the world look beautiful to her again... but she did not allow us to. Estel, the most cruel thing you can do to one who loves you is to refuse to allow them to comfort you and heal you..."

Aragorn understood. He understood both mother and son – both her need to grieve and his longing to bring comfort and healing to the mother he loved. "She did not give me enough time, I could have put it right..." Elladan's voice trailed off into silence and he sat still as a rock, thinking in silence of his greatest grief, his failure to comfort his mother.

His thoughts suddenly moved from the past to the present and his grey eyes fixed themselves on Aragorn. "Estel, do not ever reject the love of those who would comfort you, even if..." Elladan hesitated. "Even if," Aragorn urged him to continue. Elladan knew that Aragorn would not like to hear what he was about to say. But he decided to say it anyway. "Do not refuse to accept your father's love, even if it was he who hurt you. Estel, take the road with hope. The task he has set you may be within your grasp. Take the road, Estel and let your father walk with you, by your side."

"You speak as if he wants to comfort me and would be hurt if I did not allow him to do so. But I cannot believe that he thinks of me at all..." Elladan smiled. "I will not try to persuade you or weary you with argument. But Estel, do you believe that I love you and wish to comfort you? Elrohir and I?" Aragorn nodded. "Yes, but I do not know why." Elladan grinned suddenly. "Because you're Estel."   
"Because I'm dirty Estel?"   
"Because you're dirty, ragged Estel," smiled Elladan.

The rest of the journey passed in almost total silence. The two brothers found comfort in each other's presence on the road to Rivendell. But as they came in sight of that green valley, Aragorn had to admit to himself that Elrond was still the last person he wanted to meet.

Aragorn walked on the green grass of Rivendell in the cool shadows of the morning. The trees were touched by the soft golden glow of the morning sun and at their feet were deep pools of cool shadow.

Aragorn sat down on a stone step, looking at every familiar tree, leaf and stone. "I am home," he thought, warming his hands in a shimmering patch of sunshine.

It gradually dawned on him that something strange was happening. He could see a warm sun in a blue sky. But the sounds that he heard painted quite a different picture. He could distinctly hear the drumming of rain and the crash of thunder. What was going on? Perhaps it had happened at last. Perhaps he had finally said goodbye to his sanity. So this was what it was like, going mad. The world went crazy before your eyes, while you sat and watched it, at peace. He had always thought that it would be the other way around – he'd imagined that he'd be falling apart himself, while a sane world watched in amused apathy...inexplicably, he felt himself falling...

Aragorn hit the floor with an almighty crash. He blinked blearily as he looked around. It took him a while to get things clear in his head.

He was lying on the floor of his room in Rivendell. There was a storm outside his window. He had been dreaming a strange dream – a long, involved dream, prominently featuring Elladan and a horse, in which the sight of a sunny morning juxtaposed with the sound of the storm outside had finally convinced him of his insanity...


	2. Estel of Rivendell 2

Aragorn heard a gentle knock on the door and got up wearily to open it. "Come in, El-er…" In the dim light of the fading fire, he could not make out which of them it was. The tall elf smiled and Aragorn knew him at once. There was a subtle difference in their smiles that he had come to recognise. "I heard a crash and a yell – are you all right?"

Aragorn tried to smile. "I'm all right. I…er…fell off the bed." He sat down, feeling weak. "Had such a strange dream…" Elladan knelt before Aragorn's fire, trying to revive it. Hearing another crash of thunder outside, Aragorn grinned suddenly. "I could hear the rain in my dream, and was racking my brains, trying to figure out why I could not see it! Thought I'd gone mad!"

Elladan laughed. He stood up, looking at the fire that now blazed cheerily in the hearth. "I suppose we're all slightly insane in one way or another…come, Estel, warm yourself up."

Aragorn moved over to the fire. His shivering soon stopped, but his head still throbbed with pain. "When did you come, Elladan? I thought that you and Elrohir had ridden south on an errand. I looked for you when I rode in yestereve." Elladan warmed his hands thoughtfully before the fire. "You're right, Estel, we left before you got here, but…" he looked at Aragorn. "I'm not sure how to explain it…I suddenly had an odd feeling that you were in deep distress, and so we came back. But happily, you are here and you are safe. I'm glad I was wrong." He smiled and turned to leave. "Goodnight, Estel."

Alone in his room again, Aragorn restlessly paced the floor. He had elaborately constructed for himself the personality of a grim Ranger, hard as a rock, unaffected by trifling human emotions. Out in the wild lands, he had acted out the part so convincingly that he had persuaded himself that it was true. He was strong as steel, he had told himself, and no one could break him. Not even Elrond. He had suppressed his feelings, tied them in chains… and yet this night he had seen them in his dreams, wandering free.

Why, he wondered angrily, did he not walk in his own dreams with dignity. Why did he walk through his dreams like an idiot, oozing self-pity from every pore.

He suspected that the idiot was his true self, limping in deranged misery through his dreams, crying for a perfect, unconditional love that existed nowhere. Aragorn glared at the reflection in his mirror with undisguised revulsion, passed a hand through his sweaty hair and said to it, "You disgust me."

Elrond had asked the snivelling idiot in the mirror to become King of Gondor and Arnor. What did he mean? If you tell a ragged tramp that you see him as a king, is it cruel mockery or is it exaggerated, overblown, meaningless praise?

Elrond's regard was the base, the foundation upon which Aragorn's judgement of himself was built. But now that he did not understand how Elrond regarded him, he hardly knew what to think of himself. Aragorn's mind recoiled in nauseous horror at the idea of the slavering idiot in the mirror donning the winged crown of Gondor. How could anyone seriously suggest it? He did not know.

Aragorn walked back to his bed. He lay back on his pillows and looked out of the window. The storm had passed and the stars were beginning to come out. The unseen moon painted the outlines of the clouds that hid it with silver fire. Far away, Aragorn could hear the sound of elven fingers gently plucking at harp strings.

He recognised the music. He remembered sitting at Elladan's side, looking up at the rosy hued evening sky as Elladan had composed this tune, humming softly to himself and playing snatches of music on his silver harp. Aragorn had asked him what it meant and Elladan had looked up into the sky. For in his music were all the colours of the sunset, the shapes of the clouds and the dark profile of the mountain curving down into the valley and rising up again on the far side of the river that glimmered like a ribbon of liquid pearl far below.

Aragorn listened as the unknown musician played the tune he loved, wondering if it was Elladan himself who drew the haunting melody from his instrument. He fell into a peaceful sleep.


	3. Estel of Rivendell 3

The next morning was a beautiful morning in Rivendell. Aragorn sat with a blank sheet of paper before him, a quill in his hand, thinking of Arwen. Thinking of Arwen was like lighting a candle in the twilight... all those little happy thoughts that lurked in the shadows of his mind, like the dim shapes of furniture in a dark room, suddenly took on a luminous clarity. How could he describe what she did to him...well, to put it crudely, it somehow seemed to him that wherever she was, she seemed to make that place more beautiful...was it because she taught him to appreciate afresh what was already there, or was it because the power of her presence seemed to infuse her surroundings with peace and light?

Aragorn fell into a daydream, a blank sheet of paper before him, a quill in his hand. Arwen. He sighed contentedly. Arwen. She filled his mind with a pleasant, fatuous feeling of contentment. Arwen. All his worries drained out of his mind, leaving it clear as air, with little fluffy contented thoughts floating through it like white clouds in a clear blue sky.

Aragorn took up his quill and made artistic little blots of ink on his blank sheet of paper, crumpled it up, threw it away and placed another sheet of paper before him.   
"Arwen," he thought, "you could have any elf lord you wanted, and yet you chose me... you tell me what it is that you see in me? I do not ask because I like to keep hearing people praise me... I ask because... well, sometimes I hate myself, but you seem to have a different point of view...

"Arwen, you deserve to have so much more than a miserable person like me. So I've decided. I've finally decided what to do. I've decided to say goodbye to you...I don't want to hold you back from that beautiful place beyond the sea...from elven home, from Eressea... We ought to do what's best for you and not what's best for me... but Arwen, when you finally sail into the west, will you sometimes, just occasionally, think of me..."

It was a beautiful morning in Rivendell. Aragorn sat with a blank sheet of paper in front of him, a quill in his hand, thinking of Arwen...


	4. Estel of Rivendell 4

Aragorn shifted his gaze from the blank sheet of paper in front of him to the window. Rays of dazzling white sunlight streamed into his room in straight lines, lighting up tiny particles of dust in the air, turning them into flecks of gold. The sky outside was a fresh, pale blue that he knew would brighten into a vivid azure later in the day. Aragorn shouldered his pack. It was time to leave now. He was to walk up into the pine forests today, to gather herbs with Elladan and Elrohir.

He sighed. It was going to be a hard day today, keeping up with his athletic elvish brothers. The term 'herb gathering' had originally conjured up in his mind pictures of gentle elf-maidens daintily gathering herbs in beautiful gardens. But he now knew from experience that 'herb gathering' with his brothers was likely to involve long, painfully breathless walks, dizzying scrambles up cliff faces, daring rope-walks across deep ravines and other such incredible feats. The only reason why he ever joined them on such expeditions was that he loved their company.

His face lit up with genuine pleasure when he found them waiting for him in the garden. Elladan and Elrohir looked exactly alike, even thought exactly alike. And yet there was a subtle difference between them, somewhat akin to the difference between a smile and a grin. Elladan's smile was warm, quiet, kindly. Elrohir's grin was merry, vital. Which did he prefer? He loved them both.

They set off at once. Walking between the two brothers was like walking in between a grasshopper and a ladybird. Elrohir walked with an energetic bounce in his step and Elladan's walk was deceptively languid. And yet, they somehow managed to keep perfect pace with each other. It was Aragorn who struggled to keep pace with them, as weeks (or was it months?) of disturbed, sleepless nights had taken their toll on him. He wondered what he himself looked like, walking in between them. Like a drunk, perhaps. He wasn't feeling very fit at the moment. To be honest, he was, in fact, feeling rather ill. Aragorn imagined himself exaggeratedly stumbling and staggering along in between Elladan and Elrohir, adding a touch of slapstick comedy to the already humorous contrast in their styles of walking.

They finally stopped to admire the view from their road, which had led them high above the valley. Aragorn looked down at the soft green fields of Rivendell below, nestled in between the craggy mountains. He normally enjoyed the view, but today, as he looked down, he felt an unpleasant sense of giddiness, nausea.

Leading the life of a Ranger, Aragorn had got used to punishing himself physically. That was why he had set out on this little expedition with his brothers despite the fact that he was not fit enough for it, ignoring the warning signals that his body had given him. But now, every muscle in his body was telling him clearly that it had just about had enough. Aragorn realised at last that he could go no further. As he looked down at the steep slope that fell away beneath his feet, a wave of nausea overcame him. Muttering something about "looking for herbs," Aragorn disappeared into the forest for a space and reappeared some minutes later, looking pale and shaky. He sat down beside Elladan and Elrohir, wondering what to do next.

Feeling as ill as he did, the sensible thing to do would be to go home immediately, leaving Elladan and Elrohir to go on up the hill... but he didn't want to do that. It was when he was ill that he felt he needed his brothers' company the most. As a child, on the rare occasions when they were home, he had followed them around ceaselessly, never letting them out of his sight. He was still doing that, even now.

Elrohir gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Rest for a while and we'll take you home," he said. Aragorn was rather ashamed of the ridiculous sense of relief that flooded through him when he heard Elrohir's words. "Grow up," he said sternly to a mental image of his old friend in the mirror - the snivelling idiot. "Are you a four-year-old or a two-year-old to cling to your brothers when you feel ill. Let's see some independence here!" The snivelling idiot grinned back at him out of an imaginary mirror. As long as he got what he wanted, he didn't care what names Aragorn called him. He, the snivelling idiot, grinned smugly at Aragorn, secure in the knowledge that Elladan and Elrohir were going to accompany him back to Rivendell. Aragorn gave him another glare and hid his face in his hands. He felt rotten. Totally completely undeniably rotten.

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, communicating without saying a word in the manner of their elders - their father, Elrond, and their grandparents, the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn - who possessed the skill of reading another's thoughts simply by looking into their eyes.  
"He's crying. I can feel it," said Elrohir wordlessly to Elladan. Aragorn was at that moment feeling rather proud of the fact that he was managing to weep without sound or movement, so his brothers wouldn't know it.  
"Think I'll take him in my arms and comfort him, as if he were still a child," continued Elrohir, silently. Elladan shook his head with a grin. "Don't. You'd be violating some Mannish code of masculine conduct..." he communicated, through his expressive grey eyes.  
Elrohir looked surprised, "But last night, after we got back, when you went up to his room and found him crying in his sleep, you took him in your arms and spoke to him for so long, " he communicated silently.  
"He was asleep and when he awoke, he thought he'd been dreaming. And so I got away with it!"  
"So you'd be in serious trouble with him if he found out..."  
"Yes, I would!"  
"I'll tell him!"  
"No, don't... please don't!"  
Elladan and Elrohir laughed silently into each other's eyes.  
"Shall we take him home now?"  
"Let's take him to our field first and let him rest a bit before we walk down again."  
"Right!"

The brothers nodded to each other and then began to speak aloud. Elrohir placed a gentle hand on Aragorn's back. "Better now, Estel?" Aragorn could not yet trust himself to speak. He nodded, stood up and shouldered his pack, assuming as normal an expression as he could. He gave the snivelling idiot another mental glare. "Any more snivelling from you about the pain and I'll...I'll…" The snivelling idiot got the message and retired, vanquished.

Aragorn strode forward bravely with Elladan and Elrohir. They soon came to a little path that branched off to the left, leading up into the mountains. It was almost hidden in the dense undergrowth of the pine forest.

"Now that we're here, let's have a look at our field," said Elladan. The tall elves began to walk up the little path and Aragorn followed, feeling rather hurt. It was not nice for people to casually wander about, admiring their favourite scenic spots, when there were other people with them who could only just barely muster up the strength to get home...

But when they got there, he had to admit that it was a beautiful place. This was the place to which Elladan and Elrohir came to rest and recuperate after hard-fought battles. They also came to this peaceful place when they had a serious problem that they needed to think about. As the elves busied themselves with making a fire, Aragorn sat down on the velvety grass and looked about him. Around him, the grass was flecked with gold, shimmering in the sunshine, but on the far side, it was shadowed by a mountain that towered up into the sky behind the tall pines that fringed the field. To his right, the ground fell away into a green valley. Aragorn could hear the gentle gurgle of a stream or brook far below.

As he watched his brothers, his mind filled with questions. Elrohir came over to Aragorn as Elladan began to heat up some water over the fire. He sat down, ruffling Aragorn's hair affectionately as he did so. "What are you thinking of, Estel?" Aragorn shrugged. "You wouldn't want to know," he said.

But suddenly, he didn't know why, he began to pour out all his questions to Elrohir. "Why," he asked, "why am I being punished by my own father... I'd do anything to make Arwen happy, anything in the world... why was I born a man and not an elf... why must I ask the one I love to... to..." Aragorn could not bring himself to say the word "die." But the thought of what that word meant overwhelmed him.

"... he is a good father to her, protecting her from it, but..." Aragorn buried his face, which was white with pain, in his hands, as his voice faltered. "El… Elrohir, he is my father, too. If he does not stand up for me, who will? I feel now as if I have no father any more... there is a big empty space inside me that he used to fill..."

He looked at his brother, who was thousands of years old, for the answers to his questions. Elrohir looked at him with gentle grey eyes. "Estel, when you are as old as I am and have seen the many sorrows of the world… and you see a child you love discovering the harshness of the world for the first time, you burn to protect and comfort him..."

Aragorn knew that to Elrohir he was still a child, although he considered himself to be an adult. "You know, Estel," continued Elrohir, "Elladan and I know what it is to carry a deep sorrow in your heart at all times. Sometimes, the pain fades into the back of your mind and you hardly notice it, but sometimes it grows and grows and starts to hit you in the face until you cannot take it any more..."

Aragorn nodded. "It's true...I hardly think about it at all, but now that I've come home, I feel as if my father is no longer here to welcome me. I miss his support so much...I want it back..."

Elrohir sighed. "Why don't you talk to him, Estel? I've seen it so many times - you come home, you spend your whole time here avoiding him, and then you leave." Elrohir smiled suddenly at Aragorn's rather shamefaced look. "It's all right, Estel. I'd probably avoid him too, if I thought the way you did, but it's just that... well, you might be grieving for the loss of something you haven't lost. If you spoke to him, you'd know for sure..."

"And if I spoke to him," thought Aragorn to himself, "I might also find out for sure that he can't stand the sight of me." That, in fact, was the reason why he was avoiding Elrond. It was better to suspect that his father hated him than to know it for sure.

By the fire, Elladan was rummaging in his pack for some elusive herb that he could not find. Elrohir rose and went to help him. Aragorn rolled up his tattered green cloak, to use as a pillow. He flung himself down on the grass and hid his face within the folds of his cloak.

With his eyes closed, his other senses were sharpened. He could hear the distant gurgle of a brook in the valley below, and the contented drone of an insect, now louder, now softer, as it circled round and round, looking for wildflowers in the grass. He could hear the gentle swish of the wind in the trees and the soft voices of Elladan and Elrohir talking almost inaudibly to each other. They had steeped some fragrant herbs in the boiling water and Aragorn soon began to smell the fresh, invigorating scent of he-knew-not-what. Aragorn began to listen attentively to the elvish words being spoken by his brothers.

" Have you written any more of it?"  
" Yes, I'd like you to hear it and tell me what you think..."

Aragorn heard someone pulling something out of his pack, and the crackle of parchment being unfolded.

"I'll explain first... I was thinking of the old story of the music of the Ainur. I thought the music would have sounded beautiful to them as they played it, but when they stopped playing, they would have thought that it was over, it was gone..."

The speaker paused and the other apparently nodded.

"But it was not gone. It had been heard and remembered, and it was transformed into something real and beautiful. Iluvatar created the world out of the music of the Ainur..."

He paused again and then went on. "There are so many thoughts and dreams that we have that disappear, that lose themselves in nothingness. But perhaps there might be someone who listens and remembers them and maybe one day we'll be able to see them real... actually touch and feel them..."

"I understand. Read it to me now, Elrohir…"

The parchment crackled again as Elrohir began to read out what he had written.

"All that we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;  
Not its semblance, but itself…  
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,  
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,  
Are music sent up to the One by the lover and the bard;  
Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by."

Aragorn listened in rapt attention. All his dreams - could it be possible that someone had heard them and would one day make them real for him? He wanted to hear the poem once again…

But they were talking to each other once more... "What are you going to call it?" "I'll give it the name of the person I wrote it for..." Aragorn was all ears now. Did Elrohir have a secret elven love for whom he had written those beautiful words? If so, he would hear her name now! Aragorn grinned to himself within the folds of his cloak.

Elladan said something almost inaudibly and Elrohir replied in an equally soft voice.

"C'mon, c'mon talk a little louder! Help out an eavesdropper a bit," called out Aragorn from within his cloak. They chuckled. "Eavesdroppers should take what they get and ask for no more!" Aragorn sat up with a grin and held out his hand for the poem. Elrohir handed it to him. Aragorn took it and settled down comfortably to read it, but found himself staring at the title instead.

"What's the title got to do with these beautiful words you've written," he asked at last. Elrohir smiled. "The poem talks about not losing hope, and so I have called it Hope'," he said. Aragorn nodded. The title was indeed the word "hope." Elrohir had, however, written the word in the high-elven tongue, in which it was "Estel," Aragorn's own name.

Aragorn was speechless. It had not been a mere coincidence that Elrohir's poem had seemed to speak to him so meaningfully. Those words had been written especially for him. Aragorn blew his nose rather loudly into his handkerchief. At his brothers' suggestion, he snuggled back into his cloak to rest a little longer. It enveloped his face in a comforting softness.

He felt much more relaxed now. What a relief it was to have spoken to Elrohir about his father, instead of carrying the hurt secretly around inside him. Aragorn was beginning to feel a lot better now. Perhaps it was the fragrance of the herbs that Elladan had steeped in boiling water on the fire. Perhaps it was the comforting presence of his brothers nearby. Or maybe, the message of hope that Elrohir's poem had given him. Whatever it was, the gnawing pain in his heart had for some reason truly begun to heal at last, and the tears that he wept into his cloak (without sound or movement), were tears of relief.

Elladan and Elrohir smiled as they sat down beside him and began to talk again, silently, with no words spoken.

"It's odd, where I see a child crying into his cloak, father sees a king of Gondor and Arnor. Were it not for his great wisdom, I'd be tempted to say that the whole idea was ridiculous... what do you think, Elladan?"

Elladan smiled his warm smile. "I don't know - there's something about him. He's so perceptive, so concerned about the problems of people other than himself. Even in his sleep, Elrohir, he got me talking about things that... well, I've never talked about mother to anyone but you until now, but last night I found myself telling him all about it...

Elrohir nodded thoughtfully. "It is a special gift, to be able to listen to people with respect and understanding... in a king, such a gift would be of greater value than mere skill in arms."

Elladan agreed. "Yes. The trouble is, Estel thinks that a king ought to be tough and unemotional, striding around like a huge masculine colossus, strong as a rock. He thinks that his greatest weakness is his capacity to feel, to be moved, to cry... but I think that's his greatest strength. Elrohir, if this child became king, his great power of understanding would be used to protect his people. Even now, I see him give everything he has to protect thankless idiots who scorn him, treat him with suspicion, call him Strider'..."

Elrohir looked at Aragorn, his grey eyes smiling. "I understand," he said. "I understand now why he should be king."

Aragorn could not hear what they were saying, but in some intangible way, he could feel their affection. He felt inexplicably drawn to them, and soon emerged from his cloak. As the three of them walked back down to Rivendell, this intangible feeling grew stronger and stronger, although they did not say much to one another.

But never in his wildest dreams could Aragorn have imagined the reason why his brothers thought he'd make a great king. It was because he was, to use his own term, a snivelling idiot.

Elrohir's poem is a quotation from Robert Browning's "Abt Vogler," from the collection "Dramatis Personae," first published in 1864.


	5. Estel of Rivendell 5

That night, back in his room again after a day spent with his brothers, Aragorn looked out into the grey garden, glimmering with touches of silver where the streams and fountains caught the starlight. A tall Elf clad in a plain grey cloak walked alone under the starry sky, deep in thought. Although he could not see his face, Aragorn knew him at once. It was Elrond, his father.

Aragorn went down to speak to him. He met his father at the door, coming in. There had once been a time when he would fling his arms around his father's neck when he saw him again after having been away from home. But now, Aragorn bowed formally to him. "You asked to see me, father. So I have ridden home, despite the great dangers that threaten my people." Elrond looked at his youngest son in his tattered green cloak. Despite the fact that his clothes were old and worn, Aragorn stood before him with an indefinable air of dignity, every inch the chieftain of the Dunedain. 

"Thank you, Estel," he said quietly. "Shall we go out into the garden?" Aragorn nodded politely. As they walked together under the stars, Elrond spoke of the huge army that was gathering in the plains of the North. He spoke of his concern for the safety of his son and made him an offer of help. For some reason, Elrond's offer of help enraged Aragorn, and his new resolution to try to make friends with his father vanished without a trace. Why should a person who hadn't bothered to help him for so long suddenly offer him his aid? And there was also the fact that Aragorn had for years been cursing Elrond in his mind. It wouldn't be right to accept his aid after having done that…

Elrond looked deep into Aragorn's eyes, seeming to read his mind. "I and my Dunedain will fight this battle on our own, father," said Aragorn quietly. "And if I lose the battle, if I am destroyed, it is of no matter. No kingdom would have lost its king." Ah, the pleasure of snubbing Elrond! And it was rather neat, thought Aragorn, the way he had made such a subtle reference to his pet grievance about becoming King of Gondor and Arnor.

But as he walked back to his room, Aragorn reflected that a price would have to be paid for the pleasure of proudly refusing his father's help – he might have to pay for it with his life. For it was true… the enemy was waxing in power and Elrond's concern for the safety of Aragorn and his Dunedain was genuine. Aragorn got into bed, and tried to get some sleep. As he tossed and turned and sweated uneasily in bed, his fears of death grew and grew and began to take hideous shapes and forms in his dreams…


	6. Estel of Rivendell 6

Aragorn, in his sleep, was facing his worst fears. "Halbarad," he screamed, as he watched his closest friend fall off his horse, hit in the face by an orc-arrow. A ring of orcs and wargs closed in on the fallen Dunadan. Aragorn leaped off his horse to the ground and ran desperately to defend his friend. Was Halbarad dead or alive? Aragorn did not know. The orcs were closing in on him, their ghastly faces leering in triumph… he raised his sword to fight them. It was knocked out of his hand and they roared with hideous laughter. Aragorn stood facing them with no weapon now. He could see the snarling mouths of the wargs coming closer and closer…

Hearing Aragorn scream in his sleep, Elladan and Elrohir rushed to his room. They found Elrond at the door. He, too had heard his son's terrified scream…

Elladan and Elrohir saw all Aragon's fears of a violent death written on his face. Moved by his brother's look of terror, Elrohir unthinkingly called out to him,

"Don't be afraid, Estel. Fight them! Fight them!"

In response to his cry, Aragorn, in his dream, sprang up and began to viciously attack an orc who had tried to push him down onto the ground.

Just as Elrohir had cried out to Aragorn to fight back, Elrond had gently pushed his son down onto his bed, trying to calm him down, get him to relax. Feeling his father's hand on his arm, Aragorn sprang up to viciously attack the "orc" who had had the audacity to push him down.

Elrohir watched in shock as his tall, muscular brother rained blow after vicious blow on Elrond, imagining him to be an orc. Would his father be able to stand up to his powerful young son? Elladan and Elrohir rushed to Elrond's side, but found to their surprise that he did not need their help. With a skill born of long practice, he blocked Aragorn's blows - swept them aside and aimed not a single retaliatory blow back at his son.

Aragorn's face worked in frustration…this orc was amazingly strong, amazingly skilful. Where had this filthy orc learned such phenomenal skill? Aragorn had never encountered anything like this before. But he fought harder, harder…he would break this orc. Break him down. Aragorn reached down in his mind for a way to spur himself on. Something in the way the orc was fighting reminded him of his father… here was his answer, here was a way to psyche himself up to battle the orc with greater fury… all he had to do was to imagine that the orc was Elrond.

"Take that," he screamed, bringing the orc down to the ground. The orc struggled to free himself from Aragorn's grip and almost succeeded, but Aragorn was too strong for him. "You filthy creature, you remind me of my father…" Aragorn involuntarily relaxed his hold on the orc, who seized his advantage and fought back to his feet. Aragorn dealt him a blow that sent him falling to the ground with a violent crash. The force of the blow jolted him into awareness. Aragorn woke up.

He looked around his room, understandably confused. He did not at first see Elrond, who had fallen to the floor, and Elladan, who was helping his father up. He saw only Elrohir, who looked white and shaken. "I did what you said," he said, simply. "I fought him back. I was afraid at first, but then I got over it." A movement behind him caught Aragorn's eye. Aragorn turned and stared, and it gradually dawned on him that he had been wrestling with Elrond himself.

His cheeks burned with humiliation. His chest started pounding and he began to breathe fast. He had no words to say. He had called his father a filthy creature, rained punches on him, hurled insults at him and finally knocked him down. "If you make a mistake, or if you do something wrong, you can explain or apologise," thought Aragorn. "But what if you do something unspeakable…"

With a gesture, Elrond asked Elladan and Elrohir to leave the room. They nodded and left silently.

As he looked at Aragorn, who was staring miserably down at his feet, Elrond's eyes smiled in amusement. He resisted the temptation to give his son a hug. "Not yet… I must make friends with him again first." Life was never dull with this particular son around the house, thought Elrond, as he waited patiently for Aragorn to start talking to him. When he realised that Aragorn was not about to do so, Elrond cut gently into his thoughts with his quiet voice.

"Don't think about it too much," he said. "Try to sleep now, child."

Aragorn allowed himself to be led to his bed. Elrond fluffed up his pillows for him and tucked a warm blanket around him. "Goodnight, Estel," he said, and left the room.

Looking at the door that Elrond had just shut, Aragorn wondered why he felt so good all of a sudden. For his father had hardly said or done anything at all.

Outside Aragorn's door stood two powerful elf-lords. Their grey eyes, hard as granite, were tense, watchful. Elrond gave them a reassuring look.

"You look as if I've just come back from a battle," he smiled, "when in fact it was only a child having a nightmare."

Their stern expressions did not relax.

"He looked at you with such hatred in his eyes…"

"He could have hurt you, father…"

Elrond smiled again. "Let it go," he said. "After all, Estel would never intentionally do anything to hurt me."

Elladan and Elrohir nodded in agreement and visibly relaxed. They walked with Elrond to his room. Elrond took off his cloak and shoes and sat down before the fire on a simple wooden stool. Without his formal robes on, Elrond looked young, sitting there in his plain tunic and breeches, the firelight bathing his face with a warm glow. Elladan and Elrohir had always thought that their father looked his best when he dressed plainest, and today was no exception. As he bathed his wounds now with some medicinal herb, Elrond looked like their younger brother. Like his sons, he was tall and slim, but his frame was smaller, more delicate. He worked on his bruises with a frown of concentration, the firelight bathing his long limbs in a bronze glow. Elladan took the cloth from his hands and began to clean the wounds himself, with a gentle hand. Elrohir bounced around them helpfully, getting them everything they needed – water, soft cloth, fragrant herbs. Once Elrond's wounds had been tended to, the two brothers converged around their father, drawn by the pull of his magnetic presence. 

For it was not just the way he looked that made Elrond seem so young. It was also his attitude. Elrond had an amazingly relaxed attitude to life and a wide tolerance of human eccentricity. He was not a cantankerous old man, full of his own importance, trying to impose his authority on everyone in sight. He was a friend who was easy to talk to. He never moralised. When you spoke to him, you felt instinctively that no dark secret that you revealed to him would ever be ridiculed or criticised.

Elladan sat beside his father, his soft tunic brushing against Elrond's arm. Elrohir stood behind his father, absent-mindedly massaging his shoulders. Elladan and Elrohir. They were separate entities with personalities of their own. And yet there were times when Elrond felt as if they were a part of himself. 

There was a hesitant knock at the door. Elrohir went to open it. Aragorn stood in the doorway, looking apologetic and unsure of himself. Elrond's warm smile reassured him a little, but he had hoped to find Elrond alone. Something in the way his father had looked at him had finally persuaded Aragorn to talk to Elrond. But here were Elladan and Elrohir in the room, looking as if they'd been here for hours, and worse still, looking as if they would continue to be here for hours. Aragorn smiled the strained smile of one who knows that he intrudes.

"I just came to see how father was… well, goodnight."

He turned and walked back to his room. Going in, he was disgusted to find it in a mess. He picked up the pillows and blankets from the floor and threw them onto his bed with unnecessary vehemence. Finally, he flung himself on the bed too.

Aragorn spent a few miserable minutes trying to get himself into a comfortable position, and then gave it up. How he hated Rivendell. Well, he'd met Elrond and told him that his help was not required in the battle ahead. So there was no reason for him to stay on. He'd leave Rivendell tomorrow.


	7. Estel of Rivendell 7

Aragorn lay in bed, gradually metamorphosing into a snivelling idiot, when the door opened. He had left it unlocked. Someone looked in - it was his father.

And now, Elrond stood by the bed, looking down at his son. He looked down Aragorn, his youngest child with dark curly hair that tumbled untidily over his forehead and soft grey eyes that betrayed his youth, his vulnerability. He took Aragorn's hand in his.

"Did you want to talk to me," he asked.  
"No, father," lied Aragorn.  
Elrond looked at his son with affection. All his children were beautiful, he thought. And this one perhaps the most. He smoothed Aragorn's hair back from his face.  
"Couldn't get to sleep?"  
"No, father."

"What's the matter, my little Soggy-face?" Aragorn smiled at the name his father had called him. It was one of the odd little things that Elrond had always done to comfort a crying child – call him funny names to cheer him up. "Are you upset with me… angry with me? Would you like to tell me about it?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No, father," he said. Just at that moment, he wasn't thinking of how angry he was with Elrond. He looked up at his father, sincerely wishing that he could love him again as he used to. But he could not. Too much had happened…

"Father…" he said.

"Yes?"

"If you explained to me the reasons for all the things you've done, I'm sure – I'm really sure – that I'd understand."  
Elrond sat in thoughtful silence for a moment.  
"I am sorry that I think of you in this way, father."

"No," said Elrond quietly, "don't blame yourself for thinking the way you do about me… if a child of mine feels unloved, it is for me to work to make him feel loved again."

"If you explained things to me, father, I'm sure I would understand…"

Elrond smiled gently. "Estel," he said, "You have been so badly hurt by my words and deeds that I could not put things right with a few minutes of explanation. But you and I can set out on the road to recovering our old friendship today… and before you know it, the day will come when you and I truly feel that everything is all right…" Elrond's eyes softened, as he looked his son. "Will you take that road with me, Estel?"

Aragorn took a deep breath. He suddenly felt tired and depressed. Was he really ready to make friends with Elrond? Was he ready to put a stop to the continuous stream of negative remarks about Elrond that his mind had got into the habit of making? He would have to stop wallowing in misery and educate himself to think differently. Was he ready to do that? Aragorn decided that he was. "I will, father."

Elrond's eyes shone as he walked to the window and looked up at the stars. Aragorn got out of bed and went to stand beside him. There was no evening star in the sky – it was too late for that now. "Where's Earendil's star," asked Aragorn.

Elrond smiled. "He's gone." Aragorn knew that Elrond always referred to Earendil's star as "he" or "him." For that star was his father.

What was it like, wondered Aragorn, to have a father who was a star in the sky, whom you could never talk to, who never came to you when you called him, who never came running to comfort you when you saw something terrifying in your dreams, and who wasn't even there all night like the other stars… Elrond had told him once that he and his brother Elros would wake up in the early hours before dawn and wait for their father's star to rise in the east before the sun… They would wait every morning in the dark, shivering in the cold - two little elf children, waiting to catch a glimpse of their father who was a star in the sky.

Elrond had chosen to give him something that he had not had himself. He had not had a real person called "father" to talk to, to grumble about, to alternately love and to hate… a real person he could touch, hug or knock down to the ground with a vicious punch…

Aragorn and Elrond stood by the window, looking up at the stars. "You look so tired, child. Will you try to get some sleep now?" Aragorn nodded. Once again, Elrond tucked him into bed. "Goodnight, Estel," he said, bending down and kissing his son on the forehead. "Goodnight, father."

Elrond walked out into the garden, his silver harp in his hand. A brilliant star blazed in the eastern sky that had not been there before.

"Earendil," breathed Elrond, looking up at the star. He set up his harp before him. It gleamed in the starlight as he began to play it to his father. The music burst forth like a radiant wave of joy that rose up into the sky… and as Elrond played on, he began to notice that he was not alone.

From a single star, his audience had swelled to include a quiet figure in a tattered green cloak and two tall elves who looked alike, even thought alike. Elrond's music became quieter, more tender as he began to address his new audience. They drew closer to him, listening in rapt attention.

The figure in the green cloak stumbled on the uneven ground, and would have fallen, had it not been for the two tall grey-cloaked figures who caught him, steadied him and drew him close to them.

And as he sat in the garden under the stars playing to his sons, it seemed to Elrond that Earendil's star lingered in the sky much longer than usual before disappearing into the dawn.

The End.


End file.
